Blue-Eyed Boy
by cdixon
Summary: Lady Mary Crawley's thoughts about a certain blue-eyed Crawley boy: a series of one-shots.
1. Stupid Boy

****_I have only been introduced to Downton Abbey relatively recently, but it took me about 2 episodes to become absolutely addicted to it. Seriously. It's a bit of a problem..._

_All of the characters are amazing, but I have to say that the Mary/Matthew pair is my favorite. Mary keeps so much hidden, or tries to, and I always find myself wondering what's going on in that head of hers. This is my interpretation, such as it is._

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_**Stupid Boy**_

She hated him. She had hated him since before she even met him, and he had thus far done absolutely nothing to change her opinion. Of all the outsiders to come in and rob her of Downton Abbey and her inheritance, it had to be Matthew Crawley: an arrogant middle-class lawyer who snubbed his nose at their very way of life while scarcely knowing how to hold a fork properly.

And the first time they had met—hah! Talking of bad first impressions. It was as though the man had never set eyes on a lady before. He had been all bluster and ire before she'd entered, with his "I will choose my own wife" this and "they'll not change me" that.

Oh yes, he thought he was something if his words were to be believed, but he hadn't had much to say once she'd walked in, had he? There he'd stood, slack-jawed, mouth gaping open stupidly and his unseemly blue eyes ogling at her as though she'd entered in her dressing gown.

His chasing after her and awkwardly stammering an apology hadn't impressed her in the slightest, either.

As if she hadn't seen enough of the man for one day, in he comes at dinner looking for all the world like he owned the place in his perfectly fitted tails and waistcoat—purchased that very day by Papa, no doubt. Fortunately, he had but to open his mouth to make it quite clear that he did not belong among _their_ type of people. With all his talk of _jobs_ and_ weekends_ and welcoming committees, it was obvious that Matthew Crawley would never be a suitable earl.

And yet they had invited him back! This time, God in heaven, they hoped to convince her to marry him. _Marry_ him! Well, that would be the day. She was determined to let them all know what she thought of that idea, perhaps with the added benefit of letting his idiocy finally knock some sense into Papa. Perhaps then he'd finally be willing to fight against the entail.

Hence the Andromeda conversation.

"I don't know," he had said, darting those damned, arrogant, horridly blue eyes in her direction and holding her stare in obvious challenge.

(How had she not noticed before the piercing cleverness in that gaze? She should have; it would have kept her from underestimating him so.)

"I'd have to know more about the princess and sea monster in question."

How infuriating he was! With his biting words and defiant stare, as though _he_ were putting _her_ in her place.

Not bloody likely. She'd work as a housemaid before she'd let Downton Abbey go to the likes of Matthew Crawley, and she'd run naked in the streets of London before she'd marry him. How dare he challenge her? She was Lady Mary Crawley, daughter of the Earl of Grantham, future Countess of Grantham. And who was he? A lawyer who just so happened to be distantly related to Papa.

No, this stupid little country solicitor would not take Downton from her. She would make certain of that.


	2. Bewildering Boy

_****As may be apparent by now, I am a "yank." I've tried to capture Lady Mary's voice as best I can, but I'm not sure how well I've done. British and American English are really different! I'd appreciate your thoughts on this._

_**Moving on to episode 1x04...****.**_

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**_Bewildering Boy _**

As she sat across from him, listening to his detailed explanation as to why there was absolutely no way she would ever inherit Downton, it struck her that she didn't really mind him any longer.

In fact, she rather liked him.

Oh, she still despised the_ idea_ of him, and when he wasn't around she had no trouble thinking—or speaking—ill of him. But whenever she was in his presence she had to admit (not aloud, _never _aloud) to being somewhat drawn to him.

The thing was, she had absolutely no idea when that had happened. She had held him in such contempt when first he arrived, determined to either avoid him or make a fool of him, but it hadn't been long before she found herself unable to do either. He was just so…witty and clever, with such an easy charm and kind manner; she found it nearly impossible to be cold toward him.

And then there was the fact that Matthew Crawley, unlike any other man or woman she had ever met—apart from Granny, of course—could meet her scathing remarks and verbal jabs with fairly sharp blows of his own, and do so without blinking. As a matter of fact, that icy, penetrating gaze of his often made _Mary_ uncomfortable.

So deliciously uncomfortable.

And he had been so terribly kind to her after the Kemal Pamuk debacle too, though of course that wouldn't have been the case had he known the whole story. But he had seemed so genuine in his sympathy, even after she had completely ignored him the previous evening. She didn't understand what she could've done to deserve such kindness, but then again that just seemed to be who Matthew Crawley was.

But she _couldn't_ feel this way! She was supposed to find him intolerable, for God's sake, not enjoy his company. The fact remained that this man was stealing her home and inheritance, no matter how handsome and smart and funny and kind and attr... Well, no matter how nice a person he was.

"Are you quite alright, Mary?" Matthew asked, his concerned eyes—the color of the sky on the clearest summer's day—boring into her own.

"Of course," Mary replied quickly, feeling her face heat. "Just taking it all in."

He seemed to doubt the truth of this, but continued in his explanation nonetheless.

And then, just before they parted for the night, he said something almost unfathomable.

"It does trouble me," he said softly, earnestly, those _eyes_ of his full of nothing but sincerest concern. "It troubles me very much."

It dawned on her then, though perhaps it should have dawned on her much, much earlier, that Matthew Crawley _cared _about her. Not her money or her position or her looks, but _her_.

What an utterly bewildering thought.

When he grasped her hand to say goodnight, holding it for far longer than was socially necessary and much more tenderly than the platonic gesture would dictate, she somehow found herself not wanting to let go. It should have been strange or awkward or at the very least unpleasant, and yet it was none of those things. She wanted to pull him nearer, to see if that odd energy that crackled between them would intensify if she were to touch his chest or run her fingers over his jaw and through his lovely golden hair.

_That_ peculiar thought made her quickly slip her hand from his and, as calmly as she could and with as much disinterest as she could muster, bid him goodnight.

What was it about him that made her forget that she was supposed to hate him?


	3. Heartbreaking Boy

_Episode 7..._

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**_Heartbreaking Boy_**

_Leaving? _

How could he be leaving Downton?

She simply couldn't wrap her head around it. Of course he had every right to do so, and she had no one to blame but herself, but the very idea of him not being around was unfathomable.

How odd! When first he arrived, she couldn't stand the idea of him being there, and now she couldn't bear the thought of walking the grounds or going to the village or coming down for dinner and _not_ seeing that shining flash of blonde hair, _not_ looking into those clever, startlingly blue eyes. Now, the mere thought of not seeing him at least once every few days made her ache.

If only she had accepted him right away! If only she'd had the courage to…no, that wouldn't have done either. If she had told him, he would have loathed her. And she simply couldn't bear that.

If only she had never heard the name Kemal Pamuk.

She opened her mouth and then closed it again; unable to speak the words she knew she must. How could she make him understand that her delay hadn't been to do with a lack of regard for him, or to do with his position or lack thereof? The only way was to tell him the truth, the whole truth, and that was impossible. He hated her enough as it was.

"Would you have stayed? If I'd accepted you?" she pleaded in spite of herself. Lady Mary Crawley did not plead. Lady Mary Crawley did not reveal her hurt or fear or doubt to any man...any man but this one.

"Of course," he replied without hesitation, earnest pain emanating from his tear-stained eyes.

"Then I've ruined everything!" she cried. Her voice was surprisingly steady considering she felt as if her heart was shattering into a million pieces.

She was speechless as he wished her well and walked away, and it wasn't until his broad-shouldered back disappeared around the laurels that she broke completely. It was all she could do to keep her legs from collapsing beneath her.

It struck her then how very much she loved him; how deeply, desperately she loved him. Oh, she had known she loved him, she had said as much to Mama, but it took him walking away for her to understand the extent.

Oh God, she _adored_ him! _Why_ hadn't she realized this before now? Or had she, and just fought against admitting it until she couldn't possibly deny it any longer?

She remembered how he kissed her on the night he proposed, how soft and sweet his lips had been upon her own…and yet there had been that hint of passion beneath the sweetness. She recalled the adoration in his eyes when they had finally (far to quickly) pulled themselves apart, and the cautious hope in his eyes when he whispered his proposal. The memories played through her mind with striking clarity, their vividness a punishment for her idiocy.

How she had wanted to say yes! She hadn't wanted to wait at all. That magic word had been on her lips, but Pamuk's face had jumped unbidden to the forefront of her mind and stopped her uttering them. He didn't know to whom he was proposing, not really. And for some reason she hadn't been able to do that to him.

Why was it only now that she realized the reason was that she loved him too much?

She had known she was damaged goods ever since Pamuk had collapsed atop her on that awful night, but it wasn't until she saw Matthew Crawley walking away for the last time that she truly felt she was ruined


	4. Missing Boy

****_Thanks for reading, guys! And please feel free to let me know what you think...good or bad!_

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**_Missing Boy_ **

She felt as though she were walking through some sort of thick fog. Sounds seemed muffled, colors dull, and she had no idea in which direction she was headed. She felt cold to her very bones, and a deep, hollow ache had settled in her chest.

Through it all, even all these hours (days?) later, Edith's words echoed through her mind, bouncing violently about and scattering all else: "Matthew's missing. He was on patrol and he just sort of…vanished."

_Vanished? _

How did one vanish, precisely? More importantly, how did _Matthew_ vanish? He was a captain for God's sake, an officer. His men would want to know his whereabouts at all times. Not to mention that he was a tall, handsome man, desperately good looking in his uniform, with blindingly blue eyes. That sort of man would stand out anywhere, even covered in French mud.

It seemed almost silly that he could be missing.

And yet…

He was out there somewhere, lost or wounded or prisoner or…she couldn't even think of the other thing. What if he was in some horrible German prison, being starved or tortured? Or what if he was lying in a ditch somewhere, shot and bleeding? What if he was ill?

The worst of it was, she was utterly powerless. Even if she could get to France, there would be no way to locate him. And even if she did, she'd be of no use to him. Sybil, perhaps, or Isobel, but not her.

How long had it been since she had heard the news? A day? Two? How long had it been since anyone had heard from him? And now here she was, sitting idly by, forced to watch a load of talentless soldiers prance about while Matthew was _missing_.

As if it couldn't get any worse, Edith gave her that pointed nod.

She plastered a smile across her face and did her best to seem cheerful as she made her way to the front of the room and introduced the unlikely duo that was the Crawley Sisters.

_Why_ had she picked this song? Matthew, of course, the answer was always Matthew. But while the song's meaning had struck a bittersweet chord within her before the news, it now took on an entirely different meaning. And the ache within her became a stab.

And then, quite without warning, there he was. Every bit as tall and blonde and blue-eyed and _perfect_ as ever, he emerged from the throng of wretched soldiers.

He was, without question, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

The fog cleared, the colors brightened, and she breathed again for the first time in what seemed like ages.

No matter how hard she tried—and she did try, for no one could know how desperately she loved him—she couldn't tear her eyes away from him. If only she could reach out and touch him, hold him, convince herself that he was really there and had she hadn't dreamt it! But there was Lavinia to think of, sweet Lavinia. And Sir Richard, she supposed.

"You weren't _really_ worried?" Matthew asked hopefully.

She wanted to shake him! Not worried? She had never been more worried. Worried enough that, now he was back and safe and standing before her in one piece, she wanted to lock him away somewhere so he would never be in danger again. So that she would never again have to hear the words "Matthew's missing."

But she knew she couldn't. He was Matthew Crawley, _Captain _Matthew Crawley, and he wanted to honor his duty to his men and his country.

_"Are you a creature of duty?" _

_ "Not entirely." _

She could respect that, even as she loathed it. She would just have to console herself with the knowledge that, for now at least, her missing boy was home and safe.

Without a scratch.


	5. Wounded Boy

****_Thanks for the reviews and follows! Again, please feel free to let me know what you think. _

_This is the chapter that originally inspired me to write this little (disaster) story, and it's the first chapter that contains things that we did not see happen on the show. We know they happened in some form, but this is just how I imagined them. Fair warning. _

_Onward!_

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**_Wounded Boy _**

It seemed horridly ironic that, as Sybil moved the stained and bloodied clothes from his stained and bloodied body, the little stuffed dog that fell on the blanked was, as she had requested, without a scratch. Though she had indeed treasured the toy for as long as she could remember, she would have ripped the damn thing to shreds if it meant taking away his wounds.

It wasn't possible though, no matter how much she wished it. (She had never in her life wished anything even half as much.)

Not for the first time, she could barely take her eyes from him. Oh, she forced them away every few seconds, looking in Sybil's general direction when she was speaking and of course staring briefly at that damned stuffed dog, but her eyes kept going back to him. Even when she left to get the water, it took real effort to look away. She was almost—and it was silly, she told herself—worried that he would be gone when she got back.

_Oh, Matthew_. He looked small, somehow, lying in that bed, and she had never thought of Matthew as small before. He had always seemed such a heroic figure, commanding everyone's attention by his very presence in the room. Or perhaps it was just her attention he commanded. She had no way of knowing; she was only ever aware of him.

But there he lay, utterly motionless except for the painfully slow, almost imperceptible rise of his chest, broken and battered. His lovely, handsome face was cut and bruised and smeared with blood, his eyes black and sunken. She wanted them to open, just for a moment, so she could catch a glimpse of that astounding blue. If she could only see that blue, she thought, she would know he would be all right.

She returned with the basin of water—warm more than hot, just as Sybil asked—and was irrationally relieved that he was still there and breathing just as before. She tried to maintain the same sort of clinical detachment Sybil was so adept at, but as they gently removed Matthew's dirty, bloodstained shirt she couldn't help but think how long she'd wanted to see him this way under entirely different circumstances.

No, this was not at all the way she had imagined it.

He was thinner than she'd expected, though without a doubt he was thinner than he had been when first they met, and he would have been utterly beautiful if not for the horrid cuts and bruises and scars scattered over the whole of his torso. There was an especially gruesome-looking scar, just short of healed, running across the right side of his chest to just short of his shoulder. But in spite of the wounds he had such lovely smooth, pale skin, his muscles well defined from the years in the trenches, and just the lightest dusting of golden hair across his chest.

Oh, what was she thinking? He was still utterly beautiful. Utterly, heartbreakingly beautiful.

She and Sybil each took a clean rag and tenderly washed the dirt and blood from his upper body. He winced and moaned occasionally, and it broke her heart to know she was causing him even the slightest pain. But, following Sybil's very skilled example, she pressed on, and together they cleaned each wound, dressing the worst of them with iodine and clean bandages.

Ever so gingerly they rolled him to one side, and she fought back tears at the pained groan he let out as they did so. She was unable to hold back the gasp, though, when Sybil removed the crude and dirty bandage from his back.

Tears stung at her eyes as she gazed at the two great gaping wounds across the lower half of his back, each one an inch deep and oozing blood and surrounded by smaller cuts. Bruising, an angry, swollen purple and maroon, covered almost the whole of his back. There were wood splinters and tiny pieces of stone still lodged all across his skin as well, and Sybil went to fetch the tools they would need to remove them.

She sat on the edge of his bed and, hesitantly, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He was tense beneath her touch, and too warm for her liking. Her eyes were drawn up to his hair, that beautiful golden hair that had been so marvelously soft the one time she'd had occasion to run her hands through it. It was caked with mud and bloodied in places, but she reached up and gently carded her fingers through it in any case.

"Oh, Matthew," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut against the flood of tears that were threatening to fall. He seemed to relax at her touch, so she kept it up in spite of the dirt that now coated her hands. "I'll get you well again, I promise. If it's the last thing I do, I'll make sure you're well again."

He gasped and jerked and groaned horribly as they methodically removed each splinter and rock and then cleaned and bandaged his wounds as best they could, and by the time they rolled him onto his back once again he was sweating and gasping in misery. Sybil was called to some other task, but Mary left just long enough to get a clean, cool cloth to wash his face and chest once again.

She wouldn't leave him. She _couldn't_.

And when at last his eyes fluttered open, sunken in pools of black and dull from pain and morphine and scarcely able to focus on their surroundings (though they had lit on her face for a long moment with some measure of clarity) and so blue it almost hurt…it was the most breathtaking sight she had ever witnessed.


	6. Someone Else's Boy

_Here we go again! _

_Thank you all so much for reading... For those who have reviewed, I'm sorry I haven't responded individually. My schedule is nutty, but that doesn't mean I don't read and appreciate them. Please feel free to let me know what you think, whether it's good or bad!_

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**Someone Else's Boy**

She hated feeling conflicted. Unfortunately, she had been feeling conflicted for the better part of the past year, at least.

On the one hand, she genuinely liked Lavinia. She was a kind girl, stronger than she appeared, sweet and virtuous and not the least bit unpleasant. Unlikely as it seemed, she considered Lavinia a friend. And the very last thing she wanted to do was cause her pain.

Yet on the other hand, she was completely, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with Lavinia's fiancé. She couldn't even _think_ of, let alone say, the words to express how very much she loved him. Though she had tried to stop loving him (God knew her life would be so much simpler if she could) if anything she loved him more now than ever.

And she couldn't do anything about that without hurting Lavinia deeply.

It was better, almost (it was unfathomably awful), when he had been crippled and confined to the chair. As much as she hated to see him weak and filled with self-loathing, they had been able to _talk_ then. They had been able to be alone together, able to just sit and chat about nothing and everything, to laugh and joke and enjoy each others' company. It had been simple then.

It was anything but simple now.

She knew he loved Lavinia. She could see the affection in his eyes as they spoke, as he took her hand, as he gazed at her from across the room. And who could blame him? Lavinia was a lovely person who loved him and had never—would never—hurt him.

If she were honest, Lavinia was much better for him than she was.

But would he have the same passion with Lavinia? Would Lavinia challenge him, tease him, argue and joke with him the way she did? Lavinia would make him happy, but would they be _as_ happy? Something told her they wouldn't.

And she would be utterly miserable with Sir Richard Carlisle. There was no question about that. Though perhaps (probably) she deserved it.

That didn't stop her being painfully jealous whenever he touched Lavinia's hand or smiled at her or spoke about the wedding. That didn't stop her wanting him with every fiber of her being.

But she didn't want to hurt Lavinia.

She hated feeling conflicted.

There was none of that feeling (there should have been) when she descended the stairs and came to stand before him, music swelling around them, wedding flowers perfuming the air. Lavinia and Mama were upstairs fighting for their lives, but in that moment there was only Matthew: his golden hair bathed in golden light, his glorious eyes shining hopefully, longingly, lovingly, as they looked at _her_.

In that moment there was no Lavinia.

She scarcely hesitated as he held out his arms in invitation, the signature small, half-grin on his handsome face. They hadn't danced together in ages, and she thought she remembered how dangerously delicious it felt to be in his arms. But as she stepped into his embrace she realized it felt even better.

Oh, how she had longed for his touch! For so many years she had wanted to feel his arms around her, to breathe him in, to hear his melodious voice just inches from her ear, to feel the warm caress of his breath upon her skin. And yet—it seemed impossible when she thought of how often she had dreamt of this—her memory had not been able to capture how wonderful it truly felt.

Or perhaps it was different from before. _They_ were different. His arms were stronger, his shoulders broader, his presence more confident than before. And she was less vain, less arrogant, and so, so much more in love with him.

The distance between them, fairly tame at the start, evaporated as though it were dew on a hot summer's morning. He slid his hand over her back, so gradually she wouldn't have noticed if she weren't so in tuned to his every slightest movement, from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer until there was but a hair's breadth between his chest and her own.

His voice was low and husky and more musical by far than whatever song was playing on the gramophone. She had long since stopped listening to the gramophone's tune in any case.

"I couldn't just throw her over now that I can walk again," he murmured, his soft, rough voice against her cheek setting her aflame. "Well I couldn't, could I? No matter how much I might want to."

His eyes—a darker blue than that to which she was accustomed—darted from her eyes to her lips and back again as their faces drifted ever closer.

She met his kiss eagerly. Her hand slid from his to ghost over his shoulders, his chest. He brought his own rough palm to the bare skin of her shoulder, the simple touch enough to make her shudder with desire. For a few moments she forgot the Spanish Flu and the wedding and Lavinia and Richard (she could _always_ forget Richard) and just relished the feeling of _Matthew_.

But those moments—those few, blissful moments—ended with a single innocent word.

"Hello?"

Guilt unlike any she had experienced before flooded through her, and she could only pray that Lavinia hadn't seen what she knew she had witnessed. Poor, sweet Lavinia, the very last person in the world who deserved to be injured in this way.

How could she have been so stupid, so thoughtless? How could she have let herself get carried away enough to forget the one unquestionable truth? For the truth was that no matter how much she might wish it, no matter how unbelievably perfect and _right_ it felt, Matthew Crawley wasn't hers to kiss.


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